


February Words: #27: Polite

by StaringAtTheTwinSuns



Series: February Words (2018) [26]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angry Leia, Cybernetics, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Medical Procedures, Multi, POV Multiple, Protective Leia, Sick Luke, protective han
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-27
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-24 18:32:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13817004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StaringAtTheTwinSuns/pseuds/StaringAtTheTwinSuns
Summary: Luke's in the med center for a routine procedure, but things definitely don't feel normal. Han hates med centers, and especially medical droids, and he's not sure how to stand up for Luke when he's in pain. It's up to Leia to slap some sense into all of them.Part of my February prompt series, but like all of the others, this one stands alone and you can read them in any order.Teen rating for a couple of uses of the F-word and literally nothing else.





	February Words: #27: Polite

**Author's Note:**

> This is a part of the fic-a-day prompt series I'm doing for February, but like all other fics in the series, this stands alone, and you can read as many or as few of the fics as you want, and in any order. They do all (except where otherwise noted) follow the same continuity.
> 
> I'm not really sure of the date on this one.... wanted to do more of a TFA-era fic here but I think Han and Luke read a little younger than they should be?
> 
> More notes at the end!

~36 ABY~

Luke hadn’t meant this to turn into a  _ thing. _ There wasn't really any reason for Han to be here at all. It wasn't that the thought wasn't sweet, or that he wouldn't have appreciated visitors if he'd been in the med center for anything remotely serious. But at this point, getting the worn-out hardware in his mechanical hand replaced was more an exercise in boredom than anything else.

"You can go home, you know," he said. "It's... we're gonna be here awhile." He didn't want to admit that it was a little embarrassing, to have Han--or anyone, really--watching while the droids pulled half the wiring out of his forearm, or listening to conversations about pain receptors, heat sensors, and the tradeoff between realism and durability in different types of synthskin.

"Nah. It's okay." Han tried to smile, but it came out crooked and awkward. "What's the point of retiring and all if I can't be here for... moral support, or whatever?"

Luke reached as far across the bed as he could with his good hand, and Han reached up to give it a squeeze.  "I'm fine," Luke said. "I've done this a hundred times before, remember?" It was an exaggeration, of course, and meant to reassure Han, but instead it just tinged his tense, embarrassed presence with guilt.

_ Not your fault, Han _ . Luke had said it aloud more times than he could count in the thirty-odd years that had passed since Bespin.  _ You're making something that's literally nothing a big deal _ . Aloud, however, he just said. "Okay. If you insist on sticking around, then, how about getting us both something to drink?"

It wouldn't take Han long to go down to the cafeteria and get them both a couple of juices to go. But it felt like a rest, getting his obvious nerves out of the immediate vicinity. "Note to self," Luke muttered to the droid who was working on him. "Next time, don't tell Han where I'm going until I get home."

"Yes, sir," the droid said, without taking its sensors from its handiwork.

Luke didn't understand why Han felt so nervous about droids, and med centers, and especially medical droids. They’d both found themselves here, or at some other facility, countless times over the years, and nothing had ever really gone wrong. He closed his eyes--with the sensory functions in his arm shut down, the sense of only having one hand was uncomfortable. But if he let the Force take him away from his body, he might at least be able to get a little rest. Maybe he could just nap, and wake up when the whole procedure was done.

"Ow!"

A sharp, searing pain--strong enough to rip even through the Force-trance--jolted him from his sleep.

The sky outside the window was still light, and Han either hadn't returned yet or had, but had given up on staying. Luke hoped for the latter, but suspected he hadn't slept long.

"Be still," the droid said. "You may damage the restraints."

"Sorry." Luke hadn't meant to cry out, but the pain was still coursing through his arm.

"I can provide painkillers," the droid said. "If you are experiencing discomfort."

"Thank you." Luke forced himself to smile. It wasn't like it was the droid's fault. "That... that might be nice, actually. I appreciate it." He took a deep breath, tried to focus his calm through the Force. But it scared him a little, that for the first time in more than thirty years, his old injury had hurt him as badly as it had the day it had happened.

***

Han didn't know why he was here. He hated med centers, and he mostly hated droids, and he hated that Leia had almost always been the one to take care of Luke, and Luke to take care of Leia when either of them had been out of commission for whatever reason before. The second-best thing about retirement--other than the cliche-but-true "more time for the family" thing--was the absense of the yearly physical the Republic had started requiring right around the time the galaxy decided they were more or less a legit military and government.

So he was kind of glad for the excuse to leave the room, and even though he'd booked a room in the family wing to stay here for as long as Luke would, he was kind of starting to think about finding an excuse for suddenly needing to be at home with Leia. 

_ So much for a romantic gesture _ , he mentally berated himself as he paid yet another droid for two pouches of some reddish, woefully non-alcoholic beverage at the med center's cafeteria, and then decided to take a needlessly long and convoluted route back to the cybernetics ward. Luke had pretty much hit the damn thing on the head. To him, this was just a routine thing that had to get done. Han was the one making it awkward.

The hallways were quiet, the only sounds from the rooms he passed variations on the same soft buzzes and whirrs. He could just go home. Think of some excuse that Luke would see straight through but, Han knew, not judge him for.

_ He’ll probably even be glad to see me go. _

Han was in the middle of mentally rehearsing his brave, self-sacrificing, not-creeped-out-at-all speech, when he heard the scream.

Decades of reflexes kicked in, and he was running down the halls of the med center. He knew that voice better than he knew his own, and the sound of it in pain sent him into a blind panic.

“Luke!” He panted, holding onto the door frame. The room had been further away, and Han more out of shape, than he’d thought. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

The droid fixed him with its mechanical eyes—Couldn’t they at least make them kind of human-looking, like Threepio?—and said, in this supposed-to-be-calm monotone, “Master Skywalker was experiencing some slight discomfort. I have administered pain medication, and everything should be fine now.”

Han resisted the urge to narrow his eyes at the damn thing.  _ Slight discomfort my ass. _ He’d seen Luke stay calm in more dangerous situations than a scheduled visit to a Republic med center, and if he’d cried out—no matter how many drugs they’d calmed him down with afterwards—that meant more than  _ slight kriffing discomfort _ .

He bit back his words, though, forced a smile onto his face, and handed Luke one of the juice pouches. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” Luke smiled back weakly.

“All right.” Han nodded to the droid. “Um, thanks. For, uh, taking care of him.”

But there was no way in the galaxy he was going home now.

***

The droid put down its welding arm and gave both Luke and Han a nod. “It is getting late,” it said. “My programming tells me it would be less stressful for all of us to take a break, and continue the procedure tomorrow.”

Luke nodded. He still didn’t feel great, but at least the pain had faded to kind of a constant ache, and sleep and meditation would probably help. “Thank you, TC-52D. Have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As soon as the droid had left the room, Han laughed. “Have a good night? I’ll never get it,” he said. “You and droids.”

“It’s called manners, Han.”

“Whatever.” Han rolled his eyes, but his voice was soft. “So, are you allowed to leave this place, or...?”

Luke gave him a tired smile. “I’m definitely allowed to eat dinner. And Leia’s starting to worry about us. We should let her know we’re all right.” Her soft concern was more of a comfort than an annoyance, a soft pressure in the back of his mind. “And you’re worried too,” he said to Han. “Don’t be. It was nothing.”

“Yeah?” Han grumbled. Luke could tell he didn’t really believe him.

They ate flavorless hospital food from plastic trays in the cafeteria. Han grimaced and said, “Takes you back, right? This stuff hasn’t changed a bit since they were dishing it out in the Alliance.”

“Look on the bright side,” Luke said with a smile. “At least it’s not half-frozen rations?”

“At least we’ll be out of here tomorrow, right?”

Luke stared at his plate. “That’s the plan.” He hadn’t wanted to complain too much to TC-52D, but he really was more than a little worried. It definitely didn’t help that Han had been freaked out since the moment they’d walked through the door. Luke’s mind felt… hazy. Weird. Like he was coming down with something. But he couldn’t be sure if he wasn’t just picking up on Han’s discomfort, or if it was some kind of byproduct of the combination of pain and numbness in his half-connected hand.

They found a holo-com booth in the visitors’ lobby, and crowded into a space more suited for one. Leia answered right away—like she’d been waiting for them—with a weary, patient smile that said  _ Took you long enough. _

“What happened?” she said, in the brusque, no-nonsense way she’d used to scold Ben when she knew he’d been in a fight as a kid. “You both look like you’ve been chewed up and spit back out by the Sarlaac.”

Han grimaced. “Hey, Princess. Too soon.”

Luke stifled a laugh, but the movement brought another jolt of pain, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Han frown.

“We’re fine.” Too late, he put up his mental blocks. “Everything’s going well.”

“Don’t really know if screaming in pain is fine, kid,” Han muttered, but there was no joke behind this one. He’d let the old nickname slip, maybe unnoticed, and that gave Luke a different kind of jab.

“It wasn’t screaming in pain,” he said. “And really, I’m fine now. It’s always like this, at first. I’ll be fine.

It wasn’t fine, though, and as if to call him out on the lie, something in his head started to throb. It had the effect he’d hoped for, though. Han let it drop, and Leia’s concern—on her face and in the Force—softened. “All right,” she said. “I’ll trust you for now. Just hurry up and get home.”

***

“You look fucking terrible,” Han said the next morning.

Luke gave him a tired smile. “Good morning to you, too.”

Han hadn’t exactly had a lot of sleep either. Even the guest rooms smelled like antiseptic and bacta, and that had apparently reminded his brain he was long overdue for a nightmare. So he’d spent the night back in the throes of carbon sickness. Luke didn’t look like he’d fared much better, though.

“Ow!” he cried out, but smiled at the droid that was, as far as Han could tell, deep in the process of torturing him. “That’s a little better,” he said. “Thanks. But it still feels...” And then again, “Ow.” The lines on his face seemed to deepen, and a drop of sweat beaded on his brow.

“You’re sure being nice to your tormentor,” Han said.

“You catch more sand fleas with fresh milk than sour,” Luke retorted, and when Han only scowled, he gave a strained laugh and said, “Old Tatooine proverb. Just ask my Aunt Beru. Besides, this isn’t fun, but it’s important to test all the sensors. Ow!”

"I'll, uh... take your word for it. You sure you’re doing okay?” He touched Luke’s cheek, and underneath the on-again, off-again beard that was apparently having an on week, he was as hot as the med droid’s bright red heat probe looked.

“Hey, Luke?” he asked. “They take your temperature and stuff, right?”

“It’s a med center, Han. Relax. I’m in good hands.”

But the only “hands” the droid had were covered with needles and probes, and it moved in for another round of “testing” or whatever, Han’s own hand twitched in sympathetic pain.

"You, uh, mind if I... get some fresh air?" he asked.

Luke smiled as he shook his head, but it was short-lived. His face contorted again, before the droid had even had a chance to touch him, and Han remembered the way Luke had felt too hot on his skin.

He practically stormed into the hallway, not really sure why he was angry. He hated kriffing med centers, hated the way they  _ felt _ like carbon freezing. Like being unfrozen. Coming out of it, dazed. He hated the way they smelled too clean, and the way their too-bright whiteness felt like anything but cheer. Med centers were synonymous with the people he loved being hurt, and even though they usually came out in better shape than when they went in, Han wasn't even sure of that this time.

He had to get Luke out of here.

He was halfway to the holo-com booths when, for the first time in the past two days, he spotted an actual human medic.

“Hey, you!”

"May I help you?" There was something in her voice—the way her outward manners dripped with sharp contempt—that reminded him, not in a good way, of Leia.

"Sorry," Han mumbled, and tried to look it. “It’s just, you’re human. You can help me."

She raised her eyebrows, giving him a wary, hesitant look.

"No, look," Han tried to explain. "I didn't mean it that way. Look, my best friend's a Wookiee. I just meant... you know, you're not a droid?"

"Not much better," the girl deadpanned.

"Okay. I'm sorry. Just. Please. I need some help, please? I'm just worried about my partner, you know?"

That seemed to melt her ice, at least a little. The girl--the medic, Han reminded himself, young enough to be his daughter or not--at least seemed to stop trying to actively avoid him. "I'll see what I can do," she sighed. "What’s their name?"

Han lowered his voice. "Luke Skywalker."

He wasn't really sure if he was offended or relieved that the name earned him what was apparently no recognition at all.

The girl punched something into the computer. "He's in for some kind of cybernetic upgrade." Her tone was almost accusatory.

"I know,” Han said. “Look, I know it’s not life or death, but I think he’s really getting sick or something.”

The girl nodded, and gave him a smile that seemed more practiced than actually sympathetic. "A lot of patients experience some disorientation,” she said. “Once the body accepts the neural interface…”

_ But he's had the damn thing for thirty years. _

Han should have yelled that, right in her face. He should have yelled at somebody, anyway. Instead, he just mumbled, "Yeah, okay. Thanks for the help," and kept on walking angrily down the corridor.

It wasn't fair. That was what stuck the strongest in Han’s mind. It wasn't fair that Luke still had to put up with this every couple of years or so, when Han's only lasting damage from the carbonite was a bad dream once a year or so and a hatred of places like this. It wasn’t fair that no one seemed to care that Luke was sick, or hurt, or whatever. That even Luke didn’t seem to think his own health was worth a second look.

Leia. He needed to talk to Leia. He needed at least one person on his side. He found a holobooth and brought up their home connection.

“Come on. Pick up. Pick up!” he muttered. But apparently, no one was home.

***

Luke kept waiting for someone to tell him he wasn't going home that night. It wasn't that he  _ wanted _ another night in the med center, but something was definitely wrong. His new--or, well, seriously refurbished, anyway--hand seemed to be mostly operational, but every time he made more than the slightest movement, it sent a jolt of pain up his arm.

His mind felt like it was stuck in a Force trance, which is where he’d spent the better part of the day. It was better, somehow, just to make himself distant, but when he tried to surface, to say something to the droids, it was like he was caught in a thick, heavy haze.

“Responses normal” he heard, when he was close enough to conscious to do so. “Everything proceeding to schedule.” “Prognosis good.”

_ This isn't normal _ , he wanted to say, but he wasn't sure if it was fear, or manners, or maybe the Force that held his tongue. Maybe if he waited just a little bit longer, everything would be over, and he would be fine.

_ That’s what you get for trusting the Republic,  _ Anakin's younger voice chided him with a smile. He came to Luke only rarely now—sometimes as an older man, sometimes an teen. Today he was a moody young Jedi.

_ You’re a dream,  _ Luke said.

_ Maybe. Does it matter? _

Then Obi-Wan, just a faceless voice.  _ Luke. Listen to your instincts! _

Then Han, holding Luke’s hand so tight it burned.  _ Looks like torture to me _ .

***

Luke opened his eyes, and Han wasn’t quite sure if he heard her or smelled her or sensed her.

“Leia.” He knew she was there, though, before the door let her through.

“Leia?” she said, with a positive snarl. “Is that all you have to say to me?”

She pressed the back of her hand to Luke’s forehead. “Force,” she said. “He’s burning up. Hey, you. Yes, you. Droid. Can you kindly take his fucking temperature?”

***

Luke was dreaming. Or maybe he was dying. How else could he explain an insane fever dream where Leia was telling off a medical droid?

"Pardon me, madam," the droid replied. "You are not authorized to be in here.”

Leia’s red-hot fury ripped through the Force—love alone keeping it from the Dark Side.

"Not authorized to be in here?" Leia repeated. “I’ll tell you who’s not authorized. You’re programmed to heal your fucking patients, right?”

The droid inclined its head. “My programming allows me to diagnose and treat over twelve million medical conditions, including those peculiar to species that—“

“Shut up,” Leia snapped.

“With all due respect, madam—“

“Twelve million conditions. Is that right?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Diagnose this, then. A previously healthy patient, on a planet with a climate… well, let’s say a lot like this one. He—let’s say it’s a man, maybe in his his mid-fifties—begins experiencing stabbing pain during a procedure he is  _ familiar  _ with, which has caused him no more than… what’s the term, again? ‘Slight discomfort’? The  _ many times _ he has experienced it before. The next day, he develops a temperature, and spends most of the day barely responsive. Does that. Sound. Like. One of those twelve million conditions to you?"

"You're... cute when you're angry," Luke heard himself say, from the other side of a faraway cloud.

"Be quiet!" snapped Leia. "I'm not done with you either. Either of you." She directed that barb to Han.

She was shaking, though. So finely, so minutely, that it was only in the Force that Luke could see. And the power that drove every one of her scathing words wasn't anger at all. It was fear.

"Well?" She whirled back to the droid. "Have you had enough time to figure it out yet?"

If Luke didn't know better, he'd swear the droid shook too.

"Well, madam," he replied, in the same too-calming voice. "I would say that sounds a lot like... Llurnian flu."

"And tell me,  _ sir. _ " Leia twisted the title back at him. "Is Llurnian flu treatable?"

"Yes. Very. The prognosis is generally--"

"Then  _ treat him _ !" Leia slammed her hand down on the top of a cabinet, and a rain of spare syringes clattered to the floor.

The droid scuttered back out of the room, in search of human help and different drugs, and Leia--who was exhausted, Luke saw now, just as sleep-deprived as he was--let Han take her into his arms.

"I'm not... done with you," Leia said, and she punched Han weakly in the chest. "How could you not see what was wrong with him?"

"I did," Han protested.

"Then why didn't you  _ do _ anything?" She punched him harder this time. "And you..." She broke free of Han's grasp, and stood at Luke's bedside. "You dim-witted, self-centered..." Her voice broke like she was crying. "Can't you even take care of yourself for two days?"

Luke reached up, or thought he did, suddenly desperate to touch her. But either he never made it that far, or Leia didn't notice--because just at that moment the doors swung open and two human medics rushed in.

"What the hell kind of facility do you think this is?" Leia shouted, suddenly  _ on _ again. "He survived two Death Stars and you're going to kill him with your droid who can't take a fucking temperature?"

Luke closed his eyes, and someone jabbed something in his arm that, all at once, made his whole body relax into nothing.

"I'm gonna... be okay right?" He stared through blurry eyes at Han, who flashed him with a smile more like a grimace.

"I'd say that depends on what you mean by okay. Are you gonna live through the whatever-the-hell-it-is flu? Absolutely. Now whether either of us survives the rage of Her Highness once we get home? That, I think, is gonna be a whole other story."

  
  



End file.
